


Liberating Throngs

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: 3k Challenge, Biting, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mask, Mask Stays On, Musicians, Mutual Pining, Purple Prose, Stress Relief, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 08:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17577062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: The Musketeer finds herself amongst bar rabble with a certain Jester who is willing to give her a tune on the house, but if she's to receive another throng, it'll cost her.A/N: For a 3K fic challenge featuring the Jester that my good friend Darth Fucamus suggested after we both got back into playing DD obsessively. Please see related works for a link to her own ribald tale.See tags for warnings.





	Liberating Throngs

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Briar Path](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17577353) by [DarthFucamus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthFucamus/pseuds/DarthFucamus). 



Disparaging nights. Dismal delights. These were commonplace in the hamlet’s uncoined tavern. Boozehounds, gamblers and those seeking pleasures of the flesh, abound. Each man and woman alike paid their coin for an evening of stress relief. 

Dingy alabaster cotton gave a blank face to the relaxed Jester lounging, ankles crossed on the coin-drenched table. He was tall and lanky but more than able to traverse the most noxious weald, tightest ruin corridors and even live to strum tunes of the insidiousness found in the darkest dungeons. 

A hero by most respects, he was not something taken lightly despite knobby knees and deceptively weak horsehair-stitched bits of ivory and crimson. 

Malvallet, the Musketeer, had the fortune of realizing first-hand how capable the ex-court jester was. 

With a nameless Leper, Reynald the Crusader and herself on death’s door, a sickle - razor sharp - swung from the pitch to bleed a lumbering swineman out like the animal it’d mutated from… drained of blood… 

For a moment, the Musketeer imagined draining the Jester dry; milking his pearl-essence until he too was boneless. 

Rarely did he speak. Strummed melodies worked just as well most times. Only when not playing by catgut or sickle, did he wax whispers; clotted by the carnival mask and ornate headdress. 

Rattling bells with silent, shoulder-rocking giggles reminded her of the second time he proved himself more than a failed mummer. 

‘Monstrous unholy with their summoned tentacles of unseen horrors, sweeping him to the frontline. No one, including the light-footed Musketeer, guessed a Jester comfortable standing ahead of a knight in armor as he was hidden at the flank. From the darkness, executing a dirty trick of the light, he skewered the wicked succubus down the middle - between those deceptively heaving breasts - before skidding to the back of the line.’

It was then, she began entertaining sexual conquests with the decorated Jester. 

Malvallet was neither invested in flesh, dice or mead, nor did she feel comfortable in the vaulted ceilings of the Cathedral.

Stress came, and it went, and when it didn’t, she would clean her musket either at a table in the tavern where it was warm. When the noise grew too stifling, the graveyard never let her down. 

On the morrow she’d meet up at the center square with another hand-picked lot to venture into the Cove; a cretaceous place filled with eldritch fishfolk that still clung to the far corners of her nightmares.

Tomorrow promised terrors from the deep, and so here Malvallet sat, pretending she wasn’t hanging upon each pluck from the Jester’s lute while indulging her own meditation: musket oiling and maintenance. 

As a humorous hum connected with his soothing strum, she was stricken with a tickle beneath her tights, under the linen and garters. Her quim grew damp and warm; pulse fluttering. 

Malvallet paused, gripping her musket barrel in a loose fist. She’d been stroking an oil-stained rag along the brassy metal absentmindedly, much like some loving appendage packed tightly with blood and nerve endings. Only now did she notice the bartender leering with unabashed lust. 

She sneered, lowered her chin to cover an embarrassed blush beneath the brim of her tricorner. As the Jester slowed his plucking tune to look her way, her face erupted in heat. Despite how little verbality Malvallet heard on their few forays together, his comment was unsurprising. 

“There’s no peace while his eyes still roam.” Cement mixed honey was his voice...

The Jester cast narrowed malevolence at the bar, but Malvallet glimpsed the barkeep's convenient disappearance. The portly man was smart to tend his stores after insulting not one, but two heroes protecting this dismal hamlet. Courtesy was unexpected in times like these. 

With a cocksure smile, still stealing her rosy pallor, the Musketeer gave the Jester lounging beside her table a cocksure grin. “Gunpower takes care of most disturbances.”

“Ha-haaaa!” The Jester guffawed beneath a bifurcated shawl and threadbare tunic. Rumbling lean muscles hidden beneath, drew her own gaze downward - following natural curvature - to the moon-shaped belt buckle adorning his upper groin. 

Dark shadows shrouded the depths above her cheekbones, but there must have been a telltale glimmer from the torches which spoke of where her attention lied, for the Jester giggled anew… tho this time the sound was hoarse; parched perhaps.

He strummed his lute laggardly, kicking a heel against the table’s edge and dropping one wrinkle-tipped foot to the bare-dirt floor. 

“Half-priced requests for a fellow adventurer? Hehe heeee! Tonight. Tonight! Only tonight!” His jeering announcement still rang empty to most in the room aside from herself and a few scruffy travelers a table away. 

Malvallet - flush finally drained - thumbed her tricorner up until the peacock feathers tickled bare skin on the nape of her neck. She cast the Jester a wan smile, watching his black diamonds scrunch beneath obsidian eyes. 

“Any coin I had is long gone to the market stall. Fine marksmanship costs more than lullaby’s permit.”

“Ha! Nonsense!” The Jester proclaimed, nudging the table and earned coins with his heel. “First one’s free.”

“Truly?” She smirked, knowing her reputation as untested and cherried by lands untainted by such darkness. Yet a cheat, especially from a trickster, was easy to spot. 

“It’s the second one that’ll have you upending grave markers for more gold,” he muttered with good humor, loud enough to reach her ears above the rabble and rolling dice, “Hehe… lest we bargain ‘til morning.”

“That ballad of the merwench and drunken sailor. The shore for pearls?” 

The Jester’s blackened eyelets tightened in internal machinations; thinking on the fable. His diamonds lifted above the brows. 

With merriment well-hidden, he raked four fingers across his strings until the familiar aria lifted her temper. 

The song was lyrically ribald. The Jester carried each verse with the languor of a drunken seaman lusting for a merwoman - a pointless union. 

By the end of the shanty, Malvallet felt meditative; soothed but avaricious for more. Lashes low and her heart steady, she padded down her satchel, knowing the barren wastes she’d find yet hopeful regardless. Closer, having perhaps reclined his chair from his table to hers, the Jester leered at her poverty.

“The second request will cost you, Madam.”

“Alas, the cost is something I am lacking.”

“Pity,” he mused darkly, sounding swollen on glass shards. His errant giggle brought to light how little Malvallet heard him speak before tonight. 

His gloved fingers strummed catgut idly until she lifted her musket against a slim thigh and aimed it skyward, angling her chin in his direction. They locked eyes judging by the wet glistening torchlight inside his black fabric slits. The Musketeer smiled brazenly and gave her lower lip a gentle swipe of her tongue. 

Intentions clear, Malvallet rose from her chair, musket in hand, and walked out the tavern. The sound of the Jester’s strings halting under his abrupt palm made her grin. Despite the despondent orchestra of bar rabble, the wooden squeal from his chair was unmistakable. 

The Jester followed her out into the humid streets, plucking a few strings to declare his presence and perhaps his own wordless intentions. 

They crossed the working stage couch with two Vestels awaiting inoculations. Several brigands in chains barked slurs while being marched up the hill to Dirthwood Estate for questioning. 

Over the cobblestone bridge, the gummy ground of human decay gave way to the hilly encampment.

Malvallet’s tent was at the top, close enough to the quiet Survivalist as decency allowed. She owned a wheelless stagecoach that was big enough for four with a warning note scrawled in blood on the stitched opening flap. Few came up to the cloudy hilltop, except to meet with the wilds expert, and only a note of warning was needed to protect her meager belongings. 

“A fine shackled getaway, Madam.” The Jester twirled, and leaned his spine against the wooden bones of her lodgings; gloved-fingers plucking a melody with finesse to prove he could easily pluck other things…

Malvallet hipped her musket, thumbing the canvas flap entrance. “How much does the encore run?”

“No fears. Deals can be struck. Hehehe…”

His dampened giggle gave her wrist a shiver. 

Perhaps, the debauched fancies and urges he elicited would bear fruit tonight. 

He soothed her with his throng. Now, she wished to find stress release in other ways until sleep befell her and the morning tribulation eventually commenced. 

Without further adieu, Malvallet untucked the string securing her tent flap and permitted the Jester entrance. 

The darkness swallowed them both whole. 

Malvallet dropped her musket to a pile of pillows without thought, unlatched her cloak and sighed as the Jester’s long-fingered gloves drew her thighs against him. 

Abyssal black helped not as they both fumbled for buckles and buttons. The Jester's garments were simpler to remove, but he seemed only interested in baring what was necessary; deftly diving her tugging fingers to tend her own clothes. 

“The joke’s in these leggings…” The Jester groused; wetting her with the muddy muffle.

She choked on a moan as a bare, bony hand cupped her cunt despite the damp cotton still in place. The Jester padded and searched until his thumb found the divot and firm bead of her clit. Expert touch… as she expected. 

Drowned on her own mewlings by his pressing thumb, she rocked forward; blind and hazy-headed. Her core pinned his hand over his tight abdomen, searching by feel for the tinderboxes to allow her sight. 

Through the mask, his teeth snuck beneath her ear, biting a faint bruise into her neck. 

Another shivering sigh. A hiss as the Jester figured out her buckle in the dark. Her breeches sagged, falling open enough that he wedged a hand down the seam to her wet heat with ease. 

A cotton-coated groan filled her ear.

No time wasted. The Jester combed his blunt nails through her curls until soft abrasions burned her eyes. 

Malvallet slumped across his chest - palming tinder - as the Jester slid two fingers into her cunt. Curling digits and warm muffled panting replaced his strumming lute… and yes, it was as dizzying as a thick brew, but the Musketeer wanted more...

A sparked of tinder gave glimpse to white and red, diamonds and narrowed eyelets. A few bells rang as the Jester stuffed his fingers against bulbous nerves deep within, mercilessly squeezing the outside of her cunt while pumping his fingers into that… that spot…

“Blast it,” she gasped, rowing her hips into his deft touch, trying to guide the little flame shifting in the tinder towards her oil lantern. 

She missed twice, blushing as the Jester’s chuckled readily; amused by her failed multitasking. Eventually, she hit the soaked thread, and warm light filled her canvas coach. 

The Jester arched beneath her - stretching his black-plum garment - and swung his left arm against the blanketed bedding and lumpy pillows while working crushing waves of bliss into her core. Every thrusting caress brought a sheen of sweat across what skin was still covered in leather and satin. 

“This-“ she swayed with euphoria, only steadied by his free hand gripping her bun beneath an askew hat, “... feels-“

“Encore you ask. Encore… you receive. A Jester never leaves his audience wanting.”

Malvallet grinned straight white teeth befitting a privileged, yet droll upbringing, and braces her palms beneath his fool’s shawl. 

“I meant to say,” a pause to moan and shiver around expert fingers, “... it feels as if you’re paying me for the privilege-“ 

Her words died a swift death with the added twirl of his thumb upon her swollen clitoris; twin fingers still pummeling those deep nerves with wild abandon. 

He giggled madly, filling her tent with rapacious laughter as the young Musketeer clutched his tunic and rode his hand in silent rapture. Effortlessly, she found herself torn by sweet thistle teeth; drowned by brine and smothered in inebriation. 

“Kah’consarn it!” She startled as the ebbing tide washed through her. 

Malvallet blushed, but bounced on his fingers and sobbed shamelessly as he whined pleasingly and rapt his digits rhythmically until she couldn’t stand another second and winced backward. 

“Blooms… ah’and blossoms,” she moaned, feeling her hairpins pulled free by his fingers in her mussed bun. 

The Jester removed her tricorner in the same move he withdrew his fingers to slide her leggings over the supple width of her rump. 

The show was not over. He had yet to be paid… and while he’d strummed a tune of another kind, Malvallet wanted to see if he could hold a melody whilst indisposed.

From the previously unbuckled belt at his hips, Malvallet helped the cobble-stitched breeches down mid-thigh, allowed him the honor of ridding her of her frills and boots - gloves and stays - until she was as bare as she’d been on the delivery stretcher. 

His depthless eyelets lifted at her nudity, falling into slanted appreciated the further down his gaze traveled. 

Standing pale, long and riddled with rootwork veins, the Jester’s cock twitched as she ran the backs of her nails down the tender underside. It was his turn to sigh in pleasure. 

Deft and swift, the Musketeer brandished his shaft in her palm and his forgotten lute by the neck in the other. She raised his cock against her soaked cunt and laid his string instrument over his ribs. For a moment, one black eye widened, arching a cotton brow in question before realization dawned. 

“Ha! Hehe… the rules are clear, my Musketeer!”

Malvallet stroked a palm below his navel, pushing his tunic up enough to reveal bare abdominals clenched in anticipation and nodded. 

“Your request?” The Jester questioned.

“A lullaby in case I die,” she beckoned with a smile and glided his glistening cockhead through her well-worked clit and folds, notching in her quim where he might fully sedate her. 

“... as you,” throaty acquiescence turned into a collective groan of pure contentment as she sank over blood-laden girth, “... wish.”

The Jester’s gloved hand clutched his lute neck and raked wet, gloveless fingers down vibrating strings, plucking music with messy passion. It took a few churns of their hips to get him wedged firmly. 

He was an inch or so too lengthy for her, but her aching depths brought suckling nerves to heightened states. A tight fit to be sure, but the sodden sounds with each rock and slap of her cunt proved how ready she was for his encore. 

Once the burn ebbed, her rhythm ensued, and his true tune commenced. As expected, he did not disappoint. 

While Malvallet sawed her insides around towering cock, his bare fingers raced across gut. Music brimmed within her tent, mixing with carnal rumpuses. Melodies and moans alike. Slapping flesh and panting breaths. Missed chords ensued the closer her thrusts grew.

Whatever saucy lullaby he’s strummed before now became a battle cry. Her heart stampeded, fortifying her loins. Without realizing he was buffering her sinew, the Musketeer furiously bounced in his narrow hips, swallowing each sordid inch of cock with minced words of pleasure and desperate mewling cries.

The Jester lifted his knees to brace her rear, planted his wrinkled footwear and bucked upwards; fingers blurring across his lute. Dark chuckles merged with stiff grunts as his poise faltered. 

“I prefer your groans,” Malvallet gasped out; perspiration glowing down her arms as they shook to keep her aloft. Beneath, his stomach twitched.

His palm opened; strings silenced. The lute was recklessly tossed into a mound of pillows. In a similar aloof manner, the Jester grasped her hips and surged up to row her faster inside his lap. Red diamonds creased as his black eyelets winced in pleasure. From his throat, barely reaching the threads in his mask, he groaned, “Lisieux… applaud Lisieux…”

Malvallet pressed her body to his chest, wrapped her arms about his shoulders and clawed at his fool’s cap. They both clung like shipwrecked victims, rocking together as one mass of pent up tension. Another little death came upon her without warning. Scant seconds of telltale warmth - a slice of anticipation - was all the Musketeer was bequeathed before she sobbed against his diamond-cheek.

“Malvallet,” she said hurriedly in turn before crumbling, allowing his sinewy strength to wade her across so much thickness to be called barbaric. 

His name - no longer a simple jester - flowed from her lips like sweet sap. She chanted his name where his ear hid, letting the tide swallow her to the seafloor once more. Only, this time, she was anchored by two firm hands upon her; long-limbed arms barricading her from drowning. 

Her own name came after she’d turned mindless with bliss. It was a hitch of raw breath - a failed warning. His seed was not shunned, but welcome. There was nowhere to go and no time to pull away. Molten strings of cum filled her womb as her knees locked around his hips.

The Jester stuttered for only a moment's breath, taking fistfuls of her breasts while pumping up until he was drained and mad with rapturous giggles. A thumb grazed her nipple, procuring a soft sound and more heat. Malvallet did not worry when Lisieux rolled her down on the bedding now reeking of his musk. 

“... my thanks,” she murmured as he sat on his haunches, tucking a glistening cock behind patchwork-cotton and a thick belt buckle. Under the lamplight, Lisieux grinned through his eyelets and gave his own thanks, bidding farewell. 

He left with his lute and a masked-kiss across her soft nipple before leaving her to dream in the twilight. 

By dawn, Malvallet was well-rested; reinvigorated and oddly enlightened. 

Each muscle tranquilized. Mind sharp as the sharpshooter she was coined. 

Only once dressed and coiffed - gleaming musket at the ready - did she traverse the same path her and Lisieux took the night before. Internal aches were a kind reminder of their shared pleasure.

In the courtyard, by the Nomad’s Wagon and statue of ancestor’s past, she paused. The Jester sat lounging on a gnarled tree root near the assembly, lute in hand with a smile - a promise of more in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a short fic while I figure out what to do with over 15k of fanfiction that, to me, feels flat. Darth Fucamus suggested another Jester double-feature of sorts but with DD's Jester this time. It helped clear some cobwebs and I had a fun time trying to get this under the 3K limit. If you have the time, please let me know what you thought! Thank you! - and be sure to check out Darth's wonderful rendition of some Jester smut. <3
> 
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